Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

“How much does an ambassador make?” he asked under his breath.

“Less than this, I’m sure. Ambassadors usually don’t take the job for the money. They contribute money to get it.”

We waited a full minute. Ryan rang again.

I was shocked when Mrs. Specter answered the door. Though she’d applied lipstick and rouge, her face was the color of hospital linen. The copper hair had been yanked to the top of her head, but rogue strands spiraled around her ears and down her neck.

“No, I’m sorry. Something has come up.” One hand floated to her chest. “I am unable to meet with you now.”

She started to close the door, but Ryan laid a palm on the outside.

“Please. I have had a migraine.”

“We don’t want to bother you, Mrs. Specter.” He beamed his choirboy smile. “We’re here to see Chantale.”

“I cannot have you pestering my daughter.” Her voice was jagged, her knuckles white on the doorknob.

“We will be very brief,” I said.

“Chantale is sleeping.”

“Please wake her.”

“She is not well.”

“Headache?” Ryan’s voice had taken on an edge.

“I suffer from migraines, myself,” I jumped in. “I know how you’re feeling. Please send Chantale down, then go back to bed.”

“No, thank you.”

The response made no sense. I took a close look. Mrs. Specter’s pupils were the size of cocktail tumblers. The ambassador’s wife had knocked back some serious painkillers.

“Is Mr. Specter—”

She cut me off with a wave of her hand.

“Is your husband here, Mrs. Specter?”

“Here?”

“Is Mr. Specter in the house?”

“There’s no one here.”

“No one?”

Mrs. Specter shook her head, realized her mistake.

“Except Chantale.”

Ryan and I exchanged glances.

“Where is she, ma’am?” I asked, placing a hand on hers.

“What?”

“Chantale has taken off, hasn’t she?”

She dropped her head, nodded once.

“Did she tell you where she was going?”

“No.” The foyer chandelier highlighted the tendrils obscuring her face.

“Has she contacted you?”

“No.” Without looking up.

“Do you know where she is?”

“No.” Her voice sounded a million miles away.

“Mrs. Specter?” I urged.

She raised her head, looked past us at the hedge.

“Chantale is out there with people who will hurt her. And she’s angry. She’s so very, very angry.”

She drew a tremulous breath, looked from the cedars to me.

“Her father and I did this to her. My affair. His vengeful little games. How could we think this would not affect our daughter? I would do everything so very differently.”

“No parent is perfect, ma’am.”

“Few parents drive their children to drugs.”

Hard to argue that.

“Is there anything you can think of that might help us locate your daughter?”

“What?”

I repeated my question.

Mrs. Specter searched the parts of her brain that remained functional.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“May we see her room?” Ryan asked.

She gave a half nod, turned, and led us up a carved wooden staircase to a second-floor hallway.

“Chantale’s bedroom is the first on the left. I must lie down.”

“We’ll let ourselves out,” I said.

The room was dark, but hundreds of tiny points glowed on the ceiling above Chantale’s bed. I recognized them instantly. Nature Company Glow in the Dark Stars. The year Katy was fourteen we’d purchased a kit and spent an afternoon creating a stellar display. Later, she added the Solar System. Katy spent hours gazing up from her bed, dreaming of faraway worlds.

I wondered if mother or daughter had decorated Chantale’s ceiling.

The stars disappeared when Ryan flipped on the light.

The room was done in yellow gingham and white eyelet. The four-poster was heaped with dolls and lacy pillows. A stuffed orangutan hung over the footboard, eyes glassy and blank. More dolls and animals lined the window seats and filled a Boston rocker.

One nightstand held a portable phone, the other a Bose clock radio and CD player. The painted armoire across from the bed looked as if it cost more than my entire collection of home furnishings.

While Ryan moved to a desktop computer, I opened the armoire doors. A poster covered the inside of each. On the right, White Trash Two Heebs and a Bean, scrawled across four stomachs. On the left, Punk Rock On-Girls Kick Ass.

The cabinet contained books, a TV, and an extensive compact disc collection. I scanned the artists. Dropkick Murphy’s, Good Riddance, Buck-O-Nine, AFI, Dead Kennedys, Rancid, Saves the Day, Face to Face, The Business, Anti-Flag, The Clash, Less Than Jake, The Unseen, the Aquabats, The Vandals, NFG, Stiff Little Fingers. Lots of NOFX.

I felt old as Zeus. I hadn’t heard of a single group.

The books were in French and English. Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. Deepak Chopra’s The Return of Merlin. Douglas Adams’s The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Guy Corneau’s Père manquant, fils manqué. Anne of Green Gables. Several Harry Potters.

I felt a bit better.

“Mixed messages,” said Ryan, pushing the computer’s on button.

“Think the kid’s having an identity crisis?”

The room was a schizoid blend of little girl whimsy, adolescent angst, and adult curiosity. I tried to picture Chantale in it. I’d experienced her punk manifestation, seen the Father Knows Best photo. But I had no sense of the real Chantale, had no idea who she was in this room.

I heard the CPU beep and whir as it powered up.

Did Chantale like gingham? Had she asked for the dolls? Had she spotted the orangutan in a mail-order catalog, insisted it be hers? Had she won it at a carnival? Had she fixed her eyes on the plastic stars at night, wondering what life held in store? Had she shut her lids tightly, disillusioned by what it had so far revealed?

The waterfall announced Windows. Ryan worked the mouse, typed something. Something else. Crossing to watch, I could see that he had launched AOL and was trying various passwords.

He tried another key combination.

AOL informed him his choice was invalid, and suggested he reenter.

“That could take a lifetime,” I said.

“Most kids are unsophisticated.”

He tried the first name of each family member, then their initials, the initials in reverse order, then in varying combinations.

No go.

“What’s her birthday?”

I told him. He tried the digits forward and backward. AOL would not budge.

“How about the cat?”

“Guimauve.”

“Marshmallow?”

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t choose it.”

G-U-I-M-A-U-V-E.

AOL thought not.

E-V-U-A-M-I-U-G.

The welcome screen flashed, and a melodious voice announced waiting mail.

“Damn, I’m good.”

“You didn’t know the cat’s name.”

Ryan clicked an icon, and Chantale’s mailbox appeared on the screen. She had two unread e-mails. We scanned them silently. Each was from a school friend in Guatemala City.

Ryan shifted to Sent Mail. Chantale had e-mailed metalass@hotmail.com seven times since her release on Friday. Each communiqué spoke of her unhappiness, and begged for help. She’d also appealed to Dirtdoggy, Rambeau, Bedhead, Sexychaton, and Criperçant.

Chantale’s Old Mail contained two entries, one dated yesterday, the other today at 3 P.M. Both were from Metalass. Ryan opened the earlier message.

FUCKIN A I’M GLAD YOU’RE BACK. DIRT AND RAMBEAU ARE UNDERGROUND. THE HEAD’S GONE WEST. PHONE. YOU’VE GOTTA FRIEND.

“Terrific,” said Ryan, clicking on the second e-mail. “The guy’s a closet James Taylor fan.”